


Doppelgangbanger

by 2x2verse (agent_florida), Mystical



Series: The Big Banging Theory [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Doppelganger, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, M/M, asshole roommates, boyfriend schmoop, lovey sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical/pseuds/Mystical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens when Dave brings home his new boyfriend, who looks like the roommate he sleeps with, without telling you, said roommate he sleeps with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical/gifts).



There’s a knock at the front door.

It’s lucky you’re home to answer. Usually, around this time of the month, you never get out of work on time. (Month-end is hell. You hate closing the books and quibbling with the interns about how to shift around the equities.) It’s around dinner, and you were just texting Dave what he wanted you to order for takeout, when this shit happens. “Strider, I keep telling you, one of these days I’m not gonna be home when you lose your keys and you’ll have to call the landlo—oh.”

That’s not Dave.

Looking at this guy is like looking in a funhouse mirror that exaggerates all your douchebaggery. He’s about your height, around your build, but the nut-brown of his skin is definitely from sun, not from his background. You can tell, because when he shifts in the doorway, his short-sleeve button-up reveals an incredibly pale bicep with a well-defined tan line. Where you’ve got just the one cowlick, he has about five, and his hair sticks up a lot more than yours does; he doesn’t even try to tame it. He has the same glasses as you, though, the same buck teeth. Not as clean-shaven as you, but then again, given his hiking boots and his Army duffel, he’s definitely more outdoorsy than you are.

And you have no idea what he’s doing here. “Er.” You already don’t like this guy and he’s barely opened his mouth. Is that a British accent underneath all that? “I’m not sure I’m in the correct building.”

“Are you lost?” It comes out a little more sarcastically than you intended, but this encounter is weirding you out—like the old Twilight Zone episodes you used to watch as a kid.

“I’m not sure. I, ah. I’m here to meet Dave Strider.”

A surge runs through you, ending in you clenching your fists. “Who the hell are you?”

“Oh, dear, I seem to have set aside all my pleasantries. Forgive me, would you? I’m Jake. Jake English.” He holds out a hand for you to shake.

You look at it and decide you’d rather not. “Why do you want to see Dave?”

This guy—Jake—looks at you quizzically. His eyes are green. That’s pretty much the only immediately distinguishable feature between the two of you. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“We’ve been dating for a month and a half.”

Oh. That’s. Dave didn’t tell you anything about that. “Right. Um. Yeah. The boyfriend.”

“I reckoned I ought to surprise him.” Jake shrugs, jostling the duffle on his shoulder. “We’ve often discussed my visiting here, although he usually stays with me. It’s quite the trek, however!”

“Sure,” you say noncommittally. You should probably quit being a douchebag and start being an actual host. (You and Dave really should install a revolving door to your apartment, what with the frequency you have guests.) “Come on in, I was about to order dinner. Is Thai alright with you?”

Jake looks relieved when he finally steps over the threshold, though he looks around like he’s been let into a temple or something. “So long as there’s no peanut oil, chum.”

That little nickname leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth, but you push it aside. You have to tamp your reaction down further when Jake settles right into the spot on the couch you normally occupy. “Are you allergic too?”

“Deathly.” Is there anything the two of you don’t have in common? This is like a weird kind of déjà vu, a out-of-body experience like the mirror has evaporated and you’re looking at yourself how others see you. “When does Dave normally arrive home from work?”

“Any minute,” you grumble. You play with your phone, scroll through Golden Dragon’s menu over and over like you’re not just going to order the same thing you get every time.

An awkward silence settles in the room. Jake starts whistling to himself, cracking his knuckles but still tense in his seat. “Ah. You’re John, right?”

“Yeah,” you say dismissively. “John Egbert. I’m just the roommate.” You? Bitter? No way.

“It’s capital to meet you at last, I must say! Dave talks about you constantly.”

“Oh really.” That, at least, gets you to look at Jake from over your phone and raise an eyebrow at him.

You don’t get to issue a follow-up question, because the front door—you left it unlocked—swings open and the man himself barges in. “Egbert, thank fuck, I left my keys here and—“ He leaves the sentence hanging, sucking in a gasp like he just got punched in the stomach.

When you look to Jake, he’s smiling like an idiot. (He is an idiot if he’s willingly dating Dave, you remind yourself.) “I thought I would surprise you, dove.” Dove? That’s disgusting.

You flick your eyes back to Dave and it’s like you don’t know him. His face is set totally differently from how you normally see it. Usually he’s stuck in concentration, or practicing his smarmy leer, or genuinely angry. Now, though, he’s in shock. His mouth is hanging open, his eyebrows migrating up to his hairline. “Jake?” He sounds like he can barely believe it, too happy for words.

Jake’s grin just gets broader. “Come here and kiss me, you fool.”

Dave doesn’t waste any time about it—he drops his shoulder bag in the doorway, leaves the apartment door ajar, and launches himself at the other man. Jake barely has time to bark out a laugh before Dave’s in his lap and they’re kissing, soft and sweet. You can’t watch this. This is private and it’s making something twist in you and you’re not sure this knot is ever going to come out of your stomach. “When did you get here?” you can hear Dave whispering against his boyfriend’s mouth.

“A few moments ago,” Jake murmurs back. It’s like a trainwreck—you can’t look away, even when Jake runs his fingers through Dave’s hair, tucks a piece behind his ear. “You certainly seem surprised, duckie!”

“Yeah, it’s. Kinda hard to get one over on Dave Motherfucking Strider.” You bite your tongue; now is not the moment to reveal to Jake that Dave’s middle name is Elizabeth. “Are you hungry? Bet you’re starving. Egbert, did you order yet?”

“Uh. No? I was busy.” You’re more than a little curt. So sue you.

Dave doesn’t seem to notice. “Good. Let’s go eat, huh?”

“Tommy Wiseau?” Jake says, guffawing. Even his laugh is stupid, Jesus.

No. Only you get to make The Room references with Dave Strider. No. Nope. You stifle it down, though. There’s no sense in having a tantrum in front of his squeeze—who he is squeezing right in front of you. Great. “I’m not kidding,” Dave says, “let’s go out someplace nice. I’ll pull some strings. They always have a table with my name on it at Katsuya. You’re down for sushi, right?”

“Of course.” Ew. They’re being cute and doing couple schmoopy things in front of you and you feel the urge to open a window and throw yourself out of it.

Even when they extricate themselves from the couch, Dave’s holding hands with this guy. Holding hands. Dave Strider. You can’t quite wrap your head around it. “You coming, Eggs?”

“Oh.” Does Dave just want to rub this in your face? “No, uh. You two go ahead. I have month-end stuff to work on, and Jake just got here.”

“That’s too bad,” Jake says, even though he’s heading for the door same as Dave. “I’d quite enjoy getting to know you better!”

“Maybe some other time,” you offer, faking a smile as you watch them leave.

The second the door is shut, you drop it. You weren’t planning on doing cardio tonight, but there’s a speed bag at the gym with your name on it.

\--

You’re chatting with your sister over Pesterchum a few hours later when you hear a series of soft raps on your door. They keep going far longer than they have to, with no discernible rhythm, until it unexpectedly loops again. Dave. No one else you know knocks in 17/4 time. “What do you want,” you grumble, swiveling around in your desk chair to face him.

“Can we talk?”

“No, we can only communicate via smoke signals interpreted by dolphins before being retransmitted as Morse code.” You roll your eyes. “We’re talking. Right now.”

“Okay, obviously someone got your panties in a bunch. Not to worry, Egbert, I’m here to iron them smooth again.” Dave comes into your room, shuts the door behind him. Not really a good sign, seeing as all you want to do is pounce on him with your hands around your throat and pin him to your mattress while you choke him unconscious. “This isn’t gonna be weird, is it?”

“What, some guy I don’t know showing up at my doorstep before introducing himself as the romantic partner I didn’t know you had?” You leave out the part where he looks exactly like you. “No. Not weird at all.”

“Pilin’ it on a little thick, don’tcha think?”

You sigh, pushing your glasses back up the bridge of your nose. “I learned from the best.” All this sarcasm is one of Dave’s prime coping mechanisms, and through the years, you’ve picked up enough from him to be a little bitch when you want to.

“Listen.” Dave actually looks like he’s trying to compose his thoughts and tell you what he means. “I would really fucking appreciate it if you wouldn’t screw this up.”

“Why would I screw this up?”

“You screw everything up.”

There’s really nothing more to say. Dave stares at you. You stare back. Your Pesterchum window pings to break the silence, and you clear your throat a little. “These walls are thin,” you point out.

“Noted.” Dave presses his lips together, nods, and before you can say anything else, he’s gone.

Doesn’t matter how often you warn him or how quiet they are. You’d recognize Dave’s breathing anywhere. You try to fall asleep and ignore your boner, but six inches from your face, Dave’s having sex with his boyfriend. By the time Dave huffs out his climax with what sounds like Jake’s fingers in his mouth, you’re vigorously fisting your cock to get at least a little relief. And when Jake moans out Dave’s name thirty seconds later, you hide your shame in his sound.

\--

 You’ve never seen Dave this domesticated before.

He and Jake share breakfast, mooning at each other over burnt toast and scrambled eggs. (Something angry jolts you awake, something territorial that spikes in you when you think about the number of times you’ve been the one making eggs for Dave.) Jake even packs Dave’s lunch for him. That’s so fucking gay. And if it were anyone else, you’d think it was cute.

You’re not even sure which one makes you more uncomfortable: that Dave is looking to Jake to dote on him, or that Jake is actually doting on Dave like he deserves.

\--

Ah, Saturday morning. Coffee, mini Frosted Wheat, and an hours-long Ninth Doctor marathon. It’s going to be a good day. Jake and Dave sound like they might be awake, but there’s no sex noises—not even heavy breathing. What might be worse, they’re just murmuring to each other, with soft bits of laughter between their warm words. You curl further into yourself, burrow into your blanket, and turn up the volume on the television.

Maybe twenty minutes later, Jake drags himself out of the ass end of your apartment to join you in the living room. “Doctor Who. I knew I liked you.”

Oh. Right. He’s British. Who could forget, with a last name like English? “There’s always a marathon on Saturday mornings.”

Jake nods. The room falls into an awkward silence under the witty banter of the Doctor and his companion. “So. Er. How long have you and Dave lived together?”

It sounds really gay when he puts it like that. “Uh. We were roommates in college, too, but we only moved in here, oh, I don’t know. A year and a half ago?”

“But you’ve lived with him since you moved away from Seattle.”

“Well, yeah.” Who else were you going to live with? Who else was going to put up with you and your idiosyncracies? Who else knows how to drive you batshit crazy and soothe your shit right back down at the same time? Who else would make you feel so safe and so insecure all at once?

Jake doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, when you were sure the conversation was dropped, “Does he have guests often?”

“Define guests,” you grumble, tucking your knees closer to your chest.

“Well. Erm. Lovers, I suppose.”

Of course he’d ask that, and of course you don’t know how to answer. “I don’t know. Sometimes?”

“But do they stay here?”

“Oh. Like guest-guests. Yeah. I swear, someone’s couch-surfing with us every couple of weeks.” You leave out the part where both you and Dave usually end up sleeping with them.

“You seemed surprised to see me,” Jake points out.

You take a sip of coffee and pretend you’re not having this conversation. “That’s because Dave didn’t tell me he was dating anyone.”

“I’m surprised. He talks so much about you, I reckoned he must have told you about me the moment I first asked him for a date.” Jake’s awfully talkative for seven in the morning. Is he on Greenwich time or something?

“Yeah, no.” You’re not awake enough for this shit.

Jake twiddles his thumbs a little. You drink your coffee, eat your cereal. Jake sprawls out on the couch, and you slowly unwind, letting your legs down. “This is awfully impertinent of me, but I feel I ought to apologise.”

You can actually hear the British spelling in the way he talks, the S instead of the Z. “For what?”

“Several things. I barged into your home unannounced, for one.” Jake twiddles his thumbs even harder. It looks like he’s trying really hard not to be shy or awkward, and he’s failing miserably. “For another, I recognise the walls must be terribly thin, and I’m afraid you must have heard some unpleasant sounds from our coitus.”

You cough on your swallow of coffee. “I. Well. A little, yeah, but—I’m kind of used to it by now.” Dave’s sex sounds, at least. Not being there to hear them? Not so much.

“I still wanted to offer my condolences.” Condolences? Like someone died? A little of your soul, maybe, but not much else. “And, er. While we’re on the subject…”

Jake trails off. When you look over at him, he’s chewing at his thumbnail. “What.” What now?

“I understand the two of you are rather close. Brothers in bond, as it were. And I suppose I, er.” Jake coughs, but he can’t quite look at you. “Wouldn’t be terribly surprised to hear that the two of you have fornicated before,” comes out in a rush.

Okay. No. Your face flushes, and your skin starts tingling, almost like your body is trying to make your molecules dissipate just so you can reappear somewhere else that isn’t here and now having this conversation. That’s a tell in and of itself, but you refuse to answer his not-question. “Where are you going with this?”

“I.” At least Jake seems as red-faced as you. “That is to say. Dave has mentioned—“

“Seriously. Where are you going with this.”

“He has this. Er. Fantasy. If you will.” You breathe a sigh of relief. You thought he was going to finish that sentence with the fact that Dave had told his boyfriend all about the sex he’s had with you. “He prefers to be the woman, and. Erm.”

You can’t stay quiet about Jake’s stammering any more. “Be the woman?” Exactly how insensitive does this fuckhole plan on being?

“Well. I mean to say—he prefers to be penetrated.” He’s not trying to be offensive, but it comes so easy to him. “And he. He has mentioned that he’d like to copulate with. Be penetrated by. Er. More than one person at a time.”

You stare at this guy. He’s still a stranger to you and he’s trying to hit on you in the weirdest way you’ve ever experienced. It’s even weirder because he’s basically you, only a douchebag. Well, even more of a douchebag than you already are. “Dave’s had threesomes before,” you tell him.

“Yes, he’s mentioned. And, erm. Were you present at any of these? As it were.”

There’s really no point in lying, seeing as Jake’s probably already been able to suss out the answer for himself. Maybe he’s as stupid as you think, though, and he still hasn’t gotten it. “Yes, Jake. I was there for a few of them.” Three, to be exact. You haven’t had any more threesomes than that, and you’re not sure if Dave has, but probably not.

Jake sighs. He stops biting his nails so hard, quits the obnoxious twiddling. “So I won’t be terribly out of line if I ask you to assist me in making one of his fantasies into reality?”

“No, not terribly. Only a little.” You can’t keep that sarcastic comment off the end.

“But you wouldn’t mind?”

Oh, you would. But you’re not completely stupid. You know exactly what’s going on here, and it’s becoming more and more apparent the longer Jake spends trying to cajole you into indirectly having sex with him.

Dave’s dating you. Well, the you that is not-you. He’s dating the next closest thing, and whether he’s doing it on purpose to piss you off or not, he has to know it. The only person in the dark is Jake, because Jake absolutely adores him. Enough to face his awkwardness head-on and bite the bullet and ask the roommate to help him make his boyfriend happy.

It’s probably just a twin fetish thing. Hell, you felt the same way when you were involved with both Striders. But Jake is also talking about balls touching. Dicks touching. It’s not just that it’s gay, it’s that you’re going to be sharing some pretty tight quarters with this dude you barely know. This dude you barely know that’s been triangulated into the warped relationship between you and your roommate and you’ve never felt sorrier for someone in your life. “Nah,” you dismiss it. “Wouldn’t mind. But I gotta say something first.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Good.” You want to chew him out, but you take a deep, deliberate breath and compose yourself first. “I know you really care about Dave and everything—“

“I love him.”

Wow, you really don’t know how to read this guy. Six weeks into a relationship and he’s dropping the l-bomb already? What a sap. “Anyway. If you hurt him, I will forcibly introduce you to the business end of a warhammer.”

Jake’s eyebrows fly up. “I would never!”

“You say that now.” To keep yourself from digging yourself any deeper, you busy your mouth with finishing off your breakfast.

God, you are so fucked. This is so fucked up. You just want Dave to be happy, but it’s worse—you know now, for a fact, that you want to be the one making him happy. You hate this asshole who thinks he can take your place, even—especially!—when he has no idea what it is he’s doing. You’re going to have to confront Dave about this eventually, but you’re going to put it off as long as you can.

Because it means being honest with yourself, and you can’t do that. Not yet.

\--

You can hear them fucking through the wall. Again.

Maybe fucking isn’t such a good word. Knowing Jake, he’d refer to it as ‘making love.’ Dave would use one of his inappropriate euphemisms again. What he’d call your activity is choking the chicken. It’s not your fault that they’re kind of loud. Makes it easier for you to hide your little gasps, at least. Plus, you actually need to listen this time. There’s a signal you’re waiting for, a reason you’re jacking yourself to keep hard.

“Dave,” Jake says lovingly between soft little wet slapping sounds. “Oh, doll, you’re so lovely…” How can Dave even put up with this creep? The Dave you know is always one for a hard suck-and-fuck, not this bullshit. Still, if this makes him happy, you’re not about to interrupt. “Jiminy kringlefucking Christmas, how good you feel…”

There. There it is. What if you just. Didn’t go over there? Left Jake hanging. Didn’t get involved in having sex with Dave again. Made him live with his decision to replace you. But let’s face it: you’re hard and you’re thinking about burying yourself in your roommate and fucking him stupid until he forgets why he liked this guy in the first place.

You sigh, looping your thumb and forefinger around the base of your cock while you tear yourself away from the safety of your own bed and towards Dave’s door. You don’t give either of them the dignity of knocking. The second you’re in there, Dave yelps “what the fuck?” and starts scrambling in Jake’s hold, writhing with his back against the mattress.

“Let’s face it. This isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve walked in on you doing.” It feels good to spit his words back in his face, especially while he can see you playing with your dick while you watch his boyfriend fuck him. Especially while you’re calling said boyfriend an object and not a person.

“Go on, darling, move with me.” Jake’s so boring. What the hell does Dave see in this jackass? Doing him missionary-style? Does he even know how much of a kinky fuck your roommate is? Whatever. Jake’s the one on his back now, Dave hunched over him and drawn taut like a bow ready to fire. Dave barely whimpers while he’s moved. Usually he’s much more talkative than this, gives out a lot more meaningless noise.

You don’t really know when you’re welcome on the bed, but Jake gives you a clue when he reaches for the lube on the nightstand. “No, let me do it,” you tell him, taking it from his grasp. If it’s gonna be your dick in him next, you might as well grace him with your fingers first.

This isn’t the shit you and Dave use. (It’s bad when you know there’s a specific brand. Real bad.) It’s more globby, less slippery. Still, lube is lube, and it’s all over your fingertips soon enough. “Shh, that’s it, such a good boy,” Jake whispers to Dave, smoothing his fringe out of his face.

Dave doesn’t need babied like that. Still, you can play along, at least for a little bit. One of your fingertips goes to the place where the two of them are joined, tracing the rim of Jake’s condom, and Dave startles. “Jesus tittydicking Christ. It’s motherfucking Christmas up in this bitch, shit, let’s be Santa,” and he’s giggling absurdly and it’s like he’s actually happy about this or something.

You hate the other dude that has his dick in him, but honestly? You’re happy he’s happy. You slip a fingertip against his entrance, press, and Jake dutifully holds himself in place while you work yourself in. Dave lets out this beautiful, tremulous cry, more birdlike than anything, and yet he stretches and he takes you right alongside what’s already in him. You’re so proud of him and you can’t tell him a word. Jake’s still treating him like he’s going to break, caressing his sides and giving him sweet words. “You can do this, angel, shh.”

“You seriously think I can take both of your cocks?” It only comes out a little strained and breathless.

You want to breathe into him, make sure he has enough air. You can’t show that kind of weakness in front of Jake. This is too soft and gentle and you just want to ruin Dave and destroy Jake in two totally different ways. “You asked for it,” you point out wryly.

At least Jake is doing this right. While you thrust that one finger in Dave, Jake just stays still, even though you can nearly feel him trembling while he holds back. “John just wants to make you happy,” Jake says softly.

You really wish he hadn’t said that. To take Dave’s mind off it, you threaten his hole with another fingertip. He whines, pushes down, and you swear he won’t be able to take it and he does and you wonder if it doesn’t actually hurt, whether he’s trying to brave the pain or whether he actually is that much of a faggot that he wants this much dick at once. “How’re you feeling now?” you goad him.

“Fuck,” he pants. When you look up at his face, he’s actually drooling. Okay, maybe that’s a little hot. The thirst is real. “Fuck fuck fuck, John—John—“

Ah, you especially like that he’s moaning out your name, not his boyfriend’s. “Shh, shh,” god, can you punch Jake in the face and make him shut up? You really don’t think you can take too more of this sappy shit without gagging a little bit. “You can take this many, petal, you can take another, you can do it, you can take so much…” Petal? What the fuck?

It’s hard to concentrate on that, though, when your dick is pulsing from want of contact and you can feel Jake’s cock squeezed up against your fingers in Dave’s clenched hole and Dave’s twitching around you as you stretch him even more, get another finger in here. “Wow.” It’s like stupid human tricks. You’re kind of amazed that Dave’s capable of this, even though it’s so cramped in here that it hurts your knuckles.

Jake moans, in a register almost identical to yours, when you thrust with those three. “Hurry it up, chum,” he grits out.

Oh. Right. They were already merrily fucking before you came in here, and all of you are getting a little uncomfortable. “Condom?” you ask Dave. He shakes his head no, and you grin like a wolf. Good. Let Jake see that he trusts you enough to let you do him raw.

This isn’t going to work unless you get your dick so wet it’s dripping. Dave’s going to need to wash his sheets tomorrow, and you’re not about to help—he made his bed, now he has to sleep in it. Or whatever. You’re holding him open with a fingertip stretching his entrance, leaving him gaping, and it actually hurts when it closes down like a vise around the head of your dick. “Relax, baby, he’s not trying to hurt you,” but even Jake sounds like he’s in at least a little pain now.

That’s kind of an apt metaphor for this whole fucked up situation, isn’t it, you trying to squeeze your way into Dave when he’s already trying to fill the void you leave. And even though it’s difficult, Dave’s muscles clinging to you so forcefully and Jake’s shaft already solid, Dave wants this. Dave wants this, and you’ll settle for this, settle for expressing yourself in the only way you know how. You’ll fight for this.

Dave moans when the head of your cock finally gets inside him. Then it’s like he can’t catch his breath, his stomach heaving even as you swear you can watch his belly swell the further you press into him. “Breathe,” you remind him, murmuring into his ear before kissing the space just below it patronizingly. You’re not about to mirror Jake’s fucking babytalk, but you know you have to be gentle, and this is as close as you’ll get.

Everything’s a little easier after the flare of your corona, the rest of you sliding in and making Dave scream with the feel of it. God, it’s tight in here, so tight it hurts, and you admire Jake’s fortitude that he’s putting up with this with a minimum of pained wincing evident on his face. (You don’t want to think about the fact that your dick’s right up against his.) “Sweetheart, do you need a moment?”

“No,” Dave answers, but it comes out thinly out of a choked throat. “You can—you can.” Already devolving into not being able to speak sentences. Good.

Oh. Nice. So basically you’re just here to take up space and look good. Jake’s the one who starts thrusting, and Dave’s entire everything flutters around both of you when Jake hits up against his sweet spot. “Ooh, love,” he moans, “you’re so tight like this, shh…”

Dave’s shaking with the intensity of the sensations going through him. Still, he’s stronger than you. He’s biting his lip so hard there’s a drop of blood down at his chin already, eyelashes fluttering every time Jake slides into home, and yet he’s forming himself up against your body, your chest, clinging to you in every way he possibly can. “Ah—ah ah ah,” he just barely lets out with every thrust.

“Fuck, Dave, you’re so,” you grit out. Every time Jake thrusts, you get the pressure of his dick sliding against yours, and without a condom, the sensation is so much more intense. “So good it hurts,” you whisper in his ear, and he makes a desperate little noise that only you will understand.

Jake’s movements are stuttering, his hips tense under the two of you; his face is flushed, and it spreads all the way down to his (pale) chest. “Mm, love, I—I’m—Dave,” and he makes these awkward little shallow movements and you can feel his cock pulse and so can Dave if the little sound he makes is any indication.

At least someone’s coming from this. Surprisingly, Dave hasn’t lost his hard-on through all this, even through all the awkward fumbling and the slight pain for all three of you, and yeah, you kind of want to get off, too, but it’s not until Jake starts to extricate himself that you or Dave can relax. It’s a little easier now that Jake is flagging a little, but the most difficult part is still that last inch, the flare of his cockhead, before Jake can go completely limp beneath you. Once he’s half-empty, Dave reaches up behind himself, clutches onto the back of your neck. “Fuck,” he growls at you.

That’s not an expletive of pleasure. That’s a command. And you’re only too happy to obey. The philosophy thing works both ways, and even though Jake’s absent, Dave’s still half-full. It’s so much easier to move, now, and Dave’s perfectly open for you, pliant and loose and sloppy enough for you to just take and take and take without any regard for his safety.

It doesn’t take long before he’s backing up into you, making your movements twice as powerful, throwing back his head and howling with how good it is. He even reaches back to claw at your thigh when he finally gets there, pulses of cum landing on Jake’s stomach even as he twitches around you. He’s saying something, something over the slap of skin on skin, something over the thudding of your own heartbeat in your ears—

“John—Johnjohnjohn…” It’s your name. It’s your name while he’s jizzing on his boyfriend and clenching around your dick and you yank his hips to you and get as deep in him as you’re ever going to get and mark him with your cum.

Jake reaches up to cup his hands around Dave’s face. Dave gladly buries his forehead in Jake’s shoulder, pulling his body away from you. You slip out, too easy now that Dave’s been so thoroughly fucked. “You okay?” you ask quietly.

“I’ll take care of him,” Jake tells you. Oh. Right. Tweedle-dumb.

“Yeah. I.” Your dick is still wet and you’re looking at your roommate cuddling naked with his boyfriend after sex and you are so clearly not invited that it’s actually hurting you somewhere in your chest. “I should go.”

“Yes, I think you’d better,” Jake says. He’s not mean about it or anything, but it’s clear that he wants this time with Dave.

Your hands are shaking, but you slip away from the two of them. Shut the door behind yourself. And when you go to shower, you end up in there for two hours, until the water runs cold and you’re sitting in the tub, wondering how the hell you keep getting into these situations when you know you won’t be able to get out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I barely have half of you._

When you get home from work on Tuesday, Dave’s in the kitchen, headphones on his ears, squinting at his computer screen even through his shades. Must’ve decided to work from home today—you recognize the video editing program reflected on his lenses. And yet the chucklefuck isn’t here. “Seems the symbiote has left the host,” you grumble under your breath.

“I can hear you, Egbert.” Okay, not fair, he shouldn’t be able to hear anything through those headphones. He doesn’t deign to look at you, just dangles one earpiece off the back of his head while he still jams the other one into his ear. “My _boyfriend_ ,” he enunciates, “is doing some sightseeing. This is his first time in Los Angeles.”

“You mean he hasn’t gotten sick of you and decided to give up and go home already?” You don’t exactly have a timetable from Dave about how long Jake will be staying with the two of you, but he’s unwelcome and you want him out.

Dave lets out a little snort of derision, flipping his laptop shut and bringing his headphones down to rest around his neck. You can already predict the way the balls of his feet will kick against the floor so he can swivel to face you. “Is there a problem, taintstain?”

“Nah,” you say dismissively, dropping your leather messenger bag. (What? It’s slightly less pretentious than an attaché case and less adult than a briefcase. A man needs a few luxuries.) “Just that your parasite has been mooching off of us for a week now with no signs of stopping.”

Dave just grins. “I don’t think that’s it.”

It’s not, but now isn’t the time to start saying what you mean. “I don’t get what you see in him,” you say instead.

“What’s not to like?” Dave shrugs. Giving up his work as a lost cause, he goes to ransack the fridge.

“Uh, I don’t know—everything?” You slap down a hand on the kitchen counter, stare him down. You hope he can feel your glare like lasers through his shades. “Everything about him is fake. Accent, glasses, tan—everything. He’s a pretentious douchebag, with those—those little pet names, it’s disgusting, I can’t—“

“Wow, that’s rich,” Dave cuts over you, pulling out a Faygo and slamming the fridge door. “You’re calling him a fraud. Wow.”

“You bet your ass I’m calling him a fucking fraud!” It’s been building up for so long and it still doesn’t make you feel better to unleash any of this pent-up rage against your roommate. Your best friend. Your Dave. (Not his. Not anyone else’s.) “Did he start wearing the glasses because you suggested it?”

“John,” Dave says, low and quiet, setting down his drink. It’s a warning if you’ve ever heard one, a clear line in the sand.

You step right over it, stepping closer to him. Dave has his back to the counter, and even though you’re standing half a foot taller than him, you feel very, very small. “I’m not stupid,” you growl at him. “Looking at him is like looking in a mirror.” A perverted mercury mirror, the reflection mocking you and distorting the things you hate the most about yourself. “What is it, Dave? A twin fetish?”

“It’s not like that.” Dave tries to duck out under your arms; you get in his personal space, pinning his hips to the edge of the counter with the weight of your own, hands holding his to the counter. You’re so close you can feel his breathing, each inhale pushing his chest against your own.

At this proximity, you can fucking smell him, sharp and smoky, soap and detergent. His body is burning hot against yours. “Has to be,” you say ardently. “Or—oh my God.” It hits you like an eighteen-wheeler going eighty miles an hour, slamming right through your chest. “Are you trying to replace me? Is that what’s going on here? You can’t have me how you want, so you’re trying to get the next best thing.” And it aches, twisting somewhere in your stomach.

Dave twists in your grasp; it’s too easy to pin him down by rutting your hips against his, and since when does confrontation get you hard? Since when does forcing a confession mean biting down on Dave’s throat until he lets out a desperate little sigh? “That’s not it,” he denies.

Denies and denies and denies and you’re waiting for a goddamn cock to crow so this little betrayal can be complete. (You’re too far gone to appreciate the irony.) “You’re so fucking greedy, you little shit, you can’t just put up with me, you have to have him, too. Isn’t that right?” For emphasis, you shift your hips against his again—shit, he’s just as hard as you.

He rocks against you just the same, a heated breath jostled out of his chest. “Egbert, are you insane?”

“You’re driving me crazy,” spills out of your mouth before you can find the presence of mind to regret it. That bite mark looks awful. Jake’s going to see it, and you don’t give one single iota of a gold-plated shit. When you run your tongue along your teeth imprints to soothe it, Dave’s hands curl under yours, fisting so hard you can practically hear his nails scraping into the granite. “So, what, I’m not enough for you now? You need two of me?”

“Two of you?” Dave lets out this sound, this little hysterical sound, that you’ve only heard him make when he’s exceptionally frustrated. When he hates himself. Good. He can’t run from this, not even with the crazed tone of his not-laugh. “John, I barely have half of you.”

“And I don’t have any of you.” Not any more. You’ve lost your best friend and you’re spiraling out of control and the next thing you know he’s going to move out and leave you and you can’t have that. You need him. You need him now, moving blindly against him and frotting against him even fully clothed like this is better than nothing especially since he’s moving with you, breathing in your exhales and giving you his air to breathe in.

It’s suffocating, is what it is, heat and humid and you pull Dave’s hips to you to grind into him harder, harder, and Dave takes his newly-freed hands and shoves them under your shirt and scratches eight perfect lines into your stomach and you can feel how hard Dave is through four layers of clothing and all you want is skin to skin. “Are you fucking kidding me, you have all of me, you’ve always had me,” and you’re choking on a sound like his name as you drop a fat load of uterus frosting in your pants and Dave just buries his face in your shoulder and his entire body jerks against you, hard, and you know the feel of it even if you can’t see it and you hate yourself for knowing him so well.

This corner of the kitchen is crowded. Your chest is still stuck to Dave’s. You drop your forehead to his, headbutting him a little, and you’re too out of breath to come up with a comeback. He’s breathing just as hard, his lips not two inches from yours, and all you want to do is fall into this moment and never come out. If you didn’t know better, you’d say Dave was using his time dilution powers to draw this out.

Like all moments, it ends. You disengage with something like a squelch. Everything is much too cold and there’s a wet splotch at the fly of your pants. “Nice going, asshole,” you mutter down at him, grabbing your bag to head out of the kitchen. “You just cheated on your boyfriend with his doppelganger.”

You can tell Dave is rolling his eyes at you behind his shades, it’s that obvious in his tone. “It’s not exactly a closed relationship.”

“Yeah? And is he taking advantage of that?” Dave’s quiet. That’s a no if you’ve ever not-heard one. “Listen.” You can’t believe you’re about to say this. “Jake loves you. I mean he actually used the l-word in connection with you. If you’re going to date him…” You sigh. “Then fucking _date him_.” Because Jake deserves better than someone who’s just using him.

Because Dave deserves someone who’s you, only better.

\--

_I barely have half of you._

Shots fired. Lodged in your ribcage, bullets tunneling straight for your heart. Meanwhile, you’re ignoring every invitation from Dave and Jake to join them at dinner, developing a selective deafness to Jake’s sappy nicknames and a specific visual censor over his moony green eyes. Yeah, this guy still trips your gag reflex, but based on how Dave’s acting, Jake’s not exactly going anywhere soon.

 _I barely have half of you_ because every time he smiles at that goon, every little verbal quip, every time he shows Jake a freshly-edited clip for his latest short, something inside you rips in two. By giving Dave permission, you didn’t realize you were signing the death warrant on your friendship. You’ve barely seen him alone since—whatever that little confrontation was—let alone done any serious hanging out with him. He’s spending all his time with Jake: meals, television, video games. Sex. A lot of sex that you can still hear through the very thin wall separating your bedrooms.

 _I barely have half of you_ but he only looks half-there himself, like there’s a revenant hiding behind his eyes every time he grins, like there’s an echo in his voice from how hollow he is. He’s only half-hearted in his jibes, nowhere near as foul-mouthed with Jake as he is with you, trying to smooth himself out with that saccharine, simplistic sweetness and it’s like he’s overcompensating. Not that you’re actively trying to listen in on him and his boyfriend having sex, but Dave doesn’t sound that into it—not saying anything, nothing but heavy breathing and Jake murmuring to him about how perfect he is.

And Jake is totally oblivious. His laughter at Dave’s jokes is genuine, and he still reaches out to thread his fingers through Dave’s if they’ve gone too long without touching. He’s like a puppy, really, eager to please Dave in whatever way he can. It would be cuter if Dave were actually reciprocating, but still. If this is the way things are going to be, you have to nut up and shut up.

You promised Dave, after all, that you wouldn’t screw this up.

\--

You’re three hours deep in a Minecraft session when Jake and Dave finally get back from their latest fancy dinner. Well, at least Dave’s back—he’s the one who yanks the door open with such force you’re surprised it wasn’t pulled from its hinges, and when he sees you in the living room, he just glares at you, his nostrils flaring. Jake isn’t far behind, storming into the apartment just as viciously. “Strider, get back here!”

Oh. Oh, great. You’re stuck right in the middle of a couple fight because it’s happening over your video game. Do you leave? Do you stay? Do you make popcorn? “I don’t even wanna fucking look at you right now, English.” True to form, Dave stops where he is, but doesn’t turn to face his accuser.

“And why is that, Strider?” Ooh, last names. This is serious, then. “Because I remind you too much of someone else?” Shit. Shit shit shit this is not going to a good place and you really shouldn’t be in this room right now but you can’t find it in you to draw attention to yourself by trying to leave.

Dave lets out this little huff that might have been a laugh if it didn’t sound so unamused. “Sounds like you’re projecting a little there, buddy. Wanna set up the PowerPoint presentation? Do I need to get you a laser pointer?”

“You were the one who asked who else I’d dated!” Jake yells. He paws at his hips, growls when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. A strife specibus? It’s that kind of fight? Jesus, you really, really shouldn’t be here. “You can’t ask a question like that and then feign offence at the answer!”

“That’s because I wasn’t expecting you to tell me you’ve been dick-deep in my fucking brother!” Dave screams back, wheeling around to finally face Jake. That’s… a little hypocritical of him, since you’ve actually seen Dave _fucking his own brother_ , but still, this is a revelation you weren’t expecting.

Jake actually throws a punch. Dave flash-steps around it; if he hadn’t, it would have broken a lens of his shades. “You have no right to act so revolted.”

“What? What did I do? I’m not the one trying to replace my ex-boyfriend with the hot newer model. News flash: I’m not Strider two-point-oh.”

“I was trying to start over,” Jake says, his voice cracking and his knuckles cracking with how hard he’s balling his hands into fists. “I was trying to do it right. And meanwhile each of us has been thinking of someone else and I’m not having that again!” He lunges at Dave.

For a minute, you’re worried that someone’s about to get seriously hurt. Dave’s quicker than that, though, and he effortlessly sidesteps. Jake doesn’t seem to be actively going after him, just trying to rush back to Dave’s room. Is he going to lock himself in it? “Jake, wait, each of us?”

Their voices are a little more muffled now that they’re out of the room. You mute the television so you can listen to the rest of the fight. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Jake mutters, so indistinct you can barely make it out. “I was hoping it was a coincidence. I even tried to prove myself wrong, measure myself up against him—“

“English, what the fuck are you talking about?” There’s rustling sounds. Clothes? A zipper. A little ‘oof’ as Jake more than likely shoulders his duffel.

“I wanted to make you happy, Dave. And so I tried to make your dreams come true.” He’s walking back out to the living room, Dave hot on his heels, and your suspicions are confirmed. “Perhaps they did, but I don’t think I’m a part of them—“ He turns, finally notices that he’s had an eavesdropper for this entire lover’s spat. “You,” he says savagely, pointing a finger at you like a gun. He opens his mouth several times, like there’s something he really wants to say to you, but eventually he just lets out this frustrated little scream and curls his fingers into claws and storms to the door. “It’s over, Strider,” he calls back before he slams the door shut behind him.

The apartment is quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Dave’s just looking at the door, pressing his mouth shut with thin lips. When he looks at you, you actually jolt in your skin—he’s lost the shades, and you swear you can see actual feelings in his eyes. “You ruined it,” he says simply, and retreats back to his room.

\--

You wait for him to come back for the rest of the night, pausing your game at regular interviews hoping to overhear if he’s up to anything—but Dave is uncharacteristically silent. In fact, he doesn’t surface the next day, or even the day after that. Shit, maybe this breakup actually hit him pretty hard.

There comes a time, though, when enough is fucking enough, and you need to use your metaphorical crowbar to get Dave’s head out of his own ass. You knock on his bedroom door. Is he even here? He’s been so quiet it’s hard to tell. “Hey, you want pizza?”

“I don’t care,” comes out muffled from the other side of the door.

Okay, yeah, he’s banged up pretty bad if he’s not expressing his emotions regarding Italian-American cuisine. “Too bad,” you tell him, “cause a nacho pizza is currently on our coffee table.”

Shuffling sounds. Dave opens the door and you actually flinch back six inches. He doesn’t look good. At all. Without his shades, you can see the dark circles pooling under his eyes. There’s scruff on his chin, and he probably hasn’t changed out of those sleep pants since Jake left. “I thought you hated Shorty’s.”

“I did. I still do. Shit, should I have gotten ice cream?”

“I’m not a fucking girl,” Dave scoffs at you. He actually shuts the door in your face, and you must have made some sort of noise at that, because he follows up with “don’t give me that, I need to shower.”

Well, there’s a start. Once you’ve retreated back to the living room, you catch a streak of pale out of the corner of your eye, covered with nothing but a towel. Asshole. His pizza’s going to get cold, but like hell you’re waiting around on him to look presentable—he can be so vain sometimes. You take a slice of meat lovers, shove it in your mouth, get back to your Halo 2 campaign. Oldie, but goodie.

When Dave traipses into the living room, he’s shirtless, but at least he changed the sleep pants. His hair is still soaked, his skin water-slick, and you can smell soap on him. He shaved, too. Getting him out of there was good—even if. Even if you’re still hurt in a place beyond words at what he said to you. Even though just looking at him makes your stomach twist. Even when you want to wrap your arm around his shoulder and pull him close, because _I barely have half of you. I barely have half of you. I barely have half of you._

Dave takes a slice of the pizza you got him and starts chewing on it thoughtfully. This might be the first time he’s eaten in days. “Thanks,” he says quietly, his mouth full.

“Don’t do that, it’s gross.” He sprays crumbs everywhere if there’s food in his mouth and he tries to talk. Even worse is the time you had to perform the Heimlich because he insisted on aspirating his food and not shutting up simultaneously. That memory makes you smile. In kind of a sad way. That was from before things got like… this. Got so fucked up.

At least Dave swallows this time before he tries to speak. “I, uh.”

“Wait.” You pause your game. “Are you going to start talking about feelings?”

“John,” he says, and his voice is raw. _I barely have half of you_ and you shut your lips and bite your tongue and flood your mouth with blood. “I wanted to say sorry, but if you can’t take a goddamn apology I’ll go right back in there and mope for three more days.”

“Okay, okay, fine. What were you going to say?”

“What I said.” Dave seems lost for words. That’s not like him at all. “About you ruining it. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Is this a sorry-I-accused-you or a sorry-I-said-anything-but-not-sorry-I-thought-it?” It’s a very fine distinction and you’re determined to draw it, reframing the parameters of your relationship with him now that there’s no one else triangulated into the picture.

Dave licks his fingertips. You pretend you’re not watching. And imagining. Vividly. “Sorry I accused you. I mean, it wasn’t… well, I thought it was true and it wasn’t.” This is some astounding personal growth and you’re now staring unabashedly because holy shit, is Dave actually being the better person here? You’re a shitheel. “I kinda… it was rigged to blow, wasn’t it? Not your fault the bomb went off when it was on a timer to begin with.”

“I… I guess.” Even if he’s not taking responsibility outright, at least he’s taking it away from you. But if he can’t actually apologize, then you’re free to not actually accept it. That’s not what you want the apology for, anyway. _I barely have half of you_ and you clench your controller in your hands so hard you’re afraid it’s going to crumble. “ ‘m sorry, too,” you manage to mumble before shoving more pizza in your mouth to cram down whatever thinks it’s rising in your chest.

“The hell are you sorry for? You’re not the jackass that tried to replace somebody and then broke up with them.” Not that he sounds bitter or anything. Of course he’s bitter. That might actually be the longest boyfriend-romantic relationship he’s ever been in, and it’s… it’s over. And not even on his terms.

“I know that. I just.” What did you mean? You scratch the back of your neck. You’re not as good as Dave is with words at the best of times, and right now, when they actually matter, you’re drawing a blank. “That thing in the kitchen. I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Hey,” Dave says, both noncommittal and gentle all at once. How does he get his voice to do that? “There were two people there. I said some things, you—“

“Listened to those things.” You didn’t say a damn thing that you regret. _I barely have half of you_ and when you look at him and catch his fiery gaze you can’t _breathe_. “What I did,” you clarify. “That wasn’t okay.” It’s not just that he cheated on Jake, it’s that you fucking encouraged it.

Dave just shrugs. “Like I said. Open relationship.” He starts in on another slice of pizza. “All of mine are.”

“Seriously?” More about the part that he actually has real relationships, but some about how can he possibly do that to himself. To his partners. Lovers. (You’re now imagining him pinned under someone else’s body and yearning to rip this hypothetical person apart.) “Why? I mean, it’s not any of my business, but—“

“No. No, it is your business,” Dave cuts across you. “I don’t lie about that shit to people.” Cuts across you? Cuts into you. Cuts you open and splits you in two and takes a cold, hard look at your shriveled black heart and your knotted guts and your atrophied conscience but _I barely have half of you_ so you let him look at what he likes. “It isn’t a secret.”

“Maybe not to you,” you grumble, finishing off this slice. For you, being around him is like handling top-shelf liquor. The glass will shatter if you handle it too roughly, it burns when it goes down, there’s a possessory instinct in keeping it around in the first place, it’s goddamn intoxicating, and it’s one of the things you look at and don’t touch.

It’s not a secret as in dirty or shameful or disgusting, though it leaves you feeling guilty every single time. It’s a secret as in something you want to hide from the world, something you take out only on special occasions—as in you want to be the only one to see him like that and you want him to be the only one to bring you so low. There’s a certain purity in the close-held nature, and he wants to dilute this by acknowledging it. No. You won’t let him drag it out of you so easy.

Or that’s the hope, at least. Dave leans into your side and sighs. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since—well. “It wasn’t just sex. I actually cared about that sonofabitch.”

“I don’t doubt that.” What you do doubt is whether this is the first time someone’s gotten one over on Dave—someone that’s not you, at least. Whether Dave went into that relationship intending to play Jake or not, Jake played him right back, and that’s probably what stings Dave the most. Hesitantly, your arm comes up around Dave’s shoulders, and your hand lands in his hair. It’s so soft. You’d almost forgotten. “You deserve better.”

Dave makes an obnoxious tsking sound, that yeah-right scoff of derision. “If I wanted better, I could get better.” The obvious implication is that he doesn’t want better.

This is getting kinda feelings-y. You’re not good at this part. It’s why you fucked up your friendship with Davesprite and how you fucked this up with Dave. To keep your hands from shaking quite so badly, to keep your mind occupied with something else, you unpause your game and go right back to fragging aliens. “Y’know, it was about time,” you say lightly as Dave keeps burrowing into your side. “That guy was really starting to piss me off.”

“I know.” Shit, is he getting mopey again? Or just clingy? “And I kinda missed you. And shit.”

“How the hell could you miss me? I’ve been here this whole time.” You do live with him, after all. For better or for worse, you’re roommates, and you don’t particularly want to live anywhere else after rooming with him for so long. More than that, though, you’re best friends. Have been for half your lives. He’s your heart and you’re his lungs and he’s the pulse and you’re the breath and it’s been like that for so long you still can’t tell quite where he ends and you begin but even though he’s your platonic heterosexual-life-partners better half _I barely have half of you_ and it fucking _aches_.

Dave makes a grumbling noise that sounds like a black crayon scribble. “Not—ugh, you fucking douchecock, I _missed you_.”

Okay, there’s the inflection. Every word feels like he’s pressing on a bruise. “I…” You save your game, turn off the console. “Missed you too, shitlick.”

When you look down, Dave’s already gazing back up at you, his eyes completely unguarded. You can almost hear something inside of you snap. There’s hurt there and it wasn’t you who set it alight. You could kill English for what he did to your roommate. Your best friend. Your Dave. You’re the only one who gets to tear him down like this, because he does the same favor for you in return, but something happened when you tried to put yourself back together that left you needing him for support and you hate him for that. (you don’t hate him _how could you hate him_ you just hate yourself)

And if you could nearly hear it, Dave could definitely feel it. The stare he levels at you is nothing short of ardent. He closes his fingers around your wrist, fingertips up against your pulse-point pounding, and you’re convinced he’s about to drag you to the back of the apartment. Or maybe beat you up. No, instead he pulls himself to you, vaults into your lap and runs a rough hand through your hair and you barely register his awful pizza breath before his mouth is on yours and it’s not just that you’re roommates.

It’s that Dave is _home_.

Your hands come up to frame the fragile cage of his ribs; he startles deliciously when the pads of your thumbs skirt too close to his nipples, and the way he bites reflexively at your lip makes you shiver, too. His mouth, his hands, the heat of him is devouring. Searing through you. It’s purifying, almost. As if you could burn away the remnants of your doubts, scald your skin until only his touch leaves you feeling clean.

He tugs at your hair. You gasp. He swallows it down, pressing closer. He doesn’t weigh much, but what he lacks in heft he more than makes up for in flexibility. And noisiness. “Fuck, ‘f I’d’ve known,” he’s muttering idly against your mouth, but you’re not listening to the words so much as the tone. He yanks your head to the side, bares your neck, attacks you with his teeth, and the noise you make is nothing short of needy.

You get back at him immediately, scrabbling at his back until you leave eight perfect scratch marks from shoulder to sacrum. Dave arches, fingers clutching around nothing until they find the seams of your shirt. He pulls at the same time you do and the damn thing rips off your chest. Good. You need skin. You need raw. Clothes are for chumps.

“Stay,” Dave pants out against your mouth, and for a minute you want to bark at him not to treat you like a fucking dog, but then he’s gone. Gone, and you’re embracing nothing, the marks on your dark skin already fading. You don’t bruise. Not like he does. You want to see him black and blue for you. When you touch your throat, your fingertips come back slick and red. You don’t bruise, but you can bleed. Holy shit. You hope it scars.

Within five seconds he’s back like he never left, right back in the same position he was. “Did you just freeze time?”

“Flash-stepping.” He’s not even out of breath. For what, you won’t ask him, because he makes sure you can see when he puts the bottle of lube on the side table. Your stomach clenches. You or him? But then he spreads his thighs wider over your lap, leans back just the slightest bit so you can follow the wiry cut of his muscles like an arrow down the front of his pants. Him. And just in case you didn’t get the hint, he pulls your hair again, whispers right into your ear, “Give me all of you.” _I barely have half of you._

He can’t handle all of you. _You_ can’t even handle all of you. Around him you’re even less than the sum of your fractured parts, because there are broken shards of you that you hide away to keep safe and he doesn’t understand that. He doesn’t understand the safety issue. He’s going to cut himself on all your issues and you’re not going to baby him and put a band-aid on his booboo when he does. More to the point, he’s more likely than not going to _enjoy_ it, because when you start sucking a hickey into his shoulder he just pushes it further into your mouth, _encourages_ you to hurt him, and it crumbles you even further to know he trusts you like this.

His hips jerk up. His sleep pants slide down. His cock is already half-hard. You barely wait for him to kick off his clothes, pulling his body back down to yours, and the head of his dick rubs idly into your hip and his breath stutters before you force him to gasp, make him breathe again by rocking against him. His nails scratch at your stomach in his haste to get at the front of your pants, and you hiss at the feeling. “Lube,” he insists.

Because you can’t give him all of you like this. He works open the front of your pants, jamming your zipper in the process, and you find yourself giving negative fucks. The universe owes you fucks. (Dave Strider owes you a fuck and he knows it.) His hand is already curling around your dick by the time you get two slickened fingertips up against him, and his fingers clench hard, so good it hurts, when you start pushing one in.

God, it’s perfect, he’s perfect, hot and how can he possibly be so tight when you know for a fact now how much he can possibly take—but it’s not what he can _take_ , it’s what he wants you to _give_ , and another finger has him breathing hard and jacking you off with a vengeance. “Now,” he grits out at you before he bites his lip. Without the shades, you can see the way his eyelashes flutter with every thrust of your fingers in him.

“Now?” He nods. “No.” He whines. Your fingertips find his most sensitive part, press in, and his voice cracks over a soft cry. “Tell me,” but you don’t know exactly what you need to hear. “Tell me I—” _Tell me I’m not. Tell me I’m safe._ “Tell me I have all of you.”

“You always have, you dumb shit,” but his words don’t have quite the same force when they’re panted out through clenched teeth, “now sink my fucking battleship with your goddamn flesh torpedo already!”

You pull your fingers out, probably too fast because you can feel him twitch, but when you reach for the lube again it’s not where you left it. Because it’s in his hands now, and he’s drizzling it on you, massaging it into sensitive flesh and making you growl before he rears up on his knees. He’s got you in his grip, forcing you to rut up against him before he gets you where he wants you and you start to breach him.

He sinks down slow. Too slow. “Oh, fuck,” he pants out, and he’s holding onto your shoulders so tightly it’s a miracle he hasn’t wrenched them out of the sockets yet.

“Oh, but you barely have half of me,” and it feels good, so good, to throw his words back into his face, especially when you grasp at his hips and pull him down onto you and he chokes on a drawn-out moan. You want to take that sound and bottle it up and huff it in your apartment’s parking lot. It’s that good.

His hips nestle against your thighs. Your hands slip back to the curve of his ass; when you take two firm handfuls, Dave just shudders against you. “Gimme—gimme a li’l,” he slurs.

Is he fucking for real right now. “You’re the one who always wants to make things move faster,” and your voice comes out more accusatory than you’d intended. “Let me move, damn it!” You go to rock your hips, but Dave’s entire body tenses, pinning you to the couch like this.

When he does that, he _ripples_ around your dick. He has to know what that does to you. “Promise me one thing.” If you nod, you can renege later if you don’t like it. “Don’t hold back. Give me _everything_.” And he slowly unfurls around you, propping his forearms on your broad shoulders and leaning on you, hard, to hold himself up.

You drive up. Hard. One of you swears. Gravity is a heartless bitch and pulls you out of him but you piston in again and this time he meets you and you know you’re the one who whispers “shit” this time. He’s like a vise. Vice? Does it matter? Distinctions are getting blurry. You can feel his heartbeat everywhere—the tip of your cock in him, the tip of your tongue at his throat.

One of his hands cradles your neck, thumb feeling out your every breath. “Is—is that—ahh,” and his voice gets soft when your hands close nearly fully around his thin thighs. “Is that all? Come on, fuh. Fuck me like you mean it, daddy—“

Oh fuck him. Fuck him so hard and that’s exactly what you do. He knows. He knows what that does to you. God, you want to ruin him. Obliterate him. Fuck him so hard the memory of anyone else taking him like this falls out of his head. Every time you push your hips off the couch, you pull him down, and the angry slap of your bodies is like a thunderclap in the gathering storm.

One of his whines starts sounding dangerously like a word. No. You push your fingers into the slick heat of his mouth and he just sucks on them, licks between them, and it sends a sizzle down your spine that ends with you pushing up into him harder. He feeds you pleasure and you feed it right back up into him, trying to outdo him the same way he’s trying to best you, but this is a zero-sum game and even if you win it’ll be him who’s victorious.

The second you take your hand back to claw at his thighs, he starts whimpering “Daddy,” and you didn’t think you could go faster but there’s your entire body jackknifing into him like you could phase through him if you fucked him hard enough. “Oh, fuck, oh, shit, oh, oh, _John_ ,” and his thighs tremble more with the harder you thrust.

It’s your name, your name in his mouth. His hand crawls down from your throat, and you watch his fingers trail across your stomach, curl around his own dick. Not trying to jack off—closing in a tight loop of thumb and forefinger. “No,” you growl, slapping his hand away, and Dave’s not a screamer but he actually screams the next time you drive up into him.

His orgasm rips through him. Every single muscle he has tenses, and then he’s howling, clinging to you in every way possible as he shoots onto your stomach, your chest—so hard it hits your chin, fuck, fuck, and the clench of him draws you in and keeps you there and you bury yourself in him, six feet under and it feels like you’re dying when you finally let go. “Dave,” you might say, but it’s muffled by your teeth at his collarbone.

You’re breathing hard. So is he. His body slowly, slowly unwinds, well-fucked looseness settling into his lanky limbs. He only chokes a little when you pull out, and he still uses you for balance when he reaches down for his sleep pants, yanks them back on. You tuck, button, zip, reach for a tissue and take care of the worst of the mess. It’s no use pretending like that didn’t happen: your fingertips are tingling and this whole room smells like sex.

Dave might want to cuddle, or he might be too dazed-exhausted to move from where he’s slumped himself over you. “Was that everything?”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. “That’s as much as I can give you.” Because you’re kind of emotionally retarded, and even if you weren’t, you still don’t want to talk about it. This isn’t something you talk about. This is something that exists in a very contained environment so you can pretend you still have control over the situation even as Dave takes it away from you. This is pretty much all you’re capable of.

Dave shrugs lazily, hooking his chin over your shoulder. With his chest pressed against yours like this, you can feel the soft in-out of his breathing. “Better than half,” he mutters.

“Damn right it’s better.” _I barely have half of you_ and the hurt has mostly seeped out of those words but the deep sting is still there. “Dave?” You nudge your shoulder against him. “Hello? Dave?”

Fucker passed out on you. Typical. You carry him back to his room, settle him into his bed, and you pretend like Halo 2 is important enough to keep you from staying with him.


End file.
